Time travel

There is a mother, sending off her first daughter to college. She pulls her luggage with one hand and holds a basket of homemade banchan in the other. They hug tightly, forgetting the bitter quarrels they had just the other day. She remembers to let go first this time.

There is a mother, seeing herself thirty-something years ago, going off to college for the first time. She remembers the dreams she learned to dream for herself, remembers the world that seemed so big. Now, her world is as big as her home. She sees her daughter walk off with an eager, nervous smile on her face as she talks to other first-year students. She can’t help but cry, for her daughter, and for herself. Dream big, she says, and never let go first.

To dreamers (and painters)

This is for the dreams that you had when you laid eyes on the boy two doors down when you were eleven. This is for the dreams you had that night you wondered what it would be like to hold her hand when you were twelve. This is for the dreams you had when you first read the story about the painter who paints a leaf on his dying friend’s window as his last gift to the world. This is for the dreams you had that one day you would find a golden ticket inside a chocolate bar. This is for the dreams your parents had when they promised the rest of their lives to each other, then again when they thought of your name. This is for the dreams you had broken over and over again, only to get back up each time. For the people who were there with you. This is for the dreams you had on your first plane ride, and seeing that the adults were wrong, the clouds are not just water. This is for the dreams you had on Christmas Eve, and how you tried to stay up as late as you could to catch a glimpse of Santa’s leg coming down the chimney.

Keep dreaming as if those days were yesterday. Our world is slowly falling apart, but our last dreams will be way before that ever happens. Some people say your life is measured by the mark you leave behind. This is for the dreamers who can look them in the eye, and say our dreams, those crazy dreams, are our last gift to this world.

Funeral checklist

I’m beginning to think that funerals don’t make sense because I want to be at my own funeral. I’m sure we all have come upon a shallow worry once in our lives, a curiosity about who—or how many people, to be exact—will come to ours. But I am realizing that the only guest that matters is myself. To live a life of which I will have a few good words to say before sending myself off, one worth having a whole ceremony about. Oh, and I would like to be dressed extravagantly, in bright-colored hats and shoes, and a nice dress I won’t be able to afford. Because if I’m sending myself off, I would like to do it the right away. I would like to be prepared, you know, before I go off dancing in Paradise.

of old age

There will come a day when my mom does not remember me. If you ask anyone ‘what do you fear the most?’ the answer is, the day my mom will not remember me. The day I cannot remember my own name is probably second to that. To look into a mother’s eyes and see emptiness cloud the memories of holding you, your first steps, your first words, your first day at preschool, everything she dreamed you would become. The eyes that have witnessed my whole life. Even before I existed, you dreamed of me, you sang to me. Even before I was alive you imagined my future. If I was in pain, you experienced ten times that, and if I was in joy, you experienced a thousand times that. I lived, seeing the love for me reflected in your eyes.

And I worry, when those eyes look back at me and don’t realize who I am, a part of me will stop living. But also, maybe you deserve that—one final moment where you are alone with only your own body to be responsible for. Have you waited your whole life for this time? Maybe knowing that, I will be able to say goodbye.